


a moment on the lips

by thehousewedestroyed



Series: The Rubbish Bin Behind the House We Destroyed Along The Way [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, M/M, Memory Loss, Not one of the happy ones, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin Live, Underage Harry Potter, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 03:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20900867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehousewedestroyed/pseuds/thehousewedestroyed
Summary: He looks just like James. That’s why it happens the first time.





	a moment on the lips

**Author's Note:**

> AU of [The Real Relationship Was The House We Destroyed Along The Way](https://archiveofourown.org/series/661424), set before [More Than A Firebolt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642545/chapters/23547030)...

He looks just like James. That’s why it happens the first time.

He’s growing into himself, though he won’t get much taller—James certainly didn’t—and his moods shift one instant to the next. That’s why Sirius is careful to keep an eye on him: because Harry is in his care, and Harry’s temper is brittle and quick. 

Harry has been pushing the tight limits placed upon him. Sirius understands that. He understands that’s why Harry stops looking away when Sirius catches him staring. Then the closeness that Sirius has offered him, when everyone else has been distant, changes. Harry leans into Sirius’ touch, and then he curls toward it.

Then Harry goes from staring to meeting Sirius’ eyes and daring him. He waits until he knows he’s got Sirius’ attention and drags a look down every inch of Sirius’ body to the foot that’s propped up on the table. Like they’re the only two people in the room, and Sirius wishes fervently that they _were_ the only two people in the room. Instead he has to clear his throat and excuse himself suddenly, and Harry’s eyes bore a hole in the back of his head as he goes upstairs to take a cold shower.

But alone, in the water, he’s already half hard when he takes himself in hand. He swears under his breath when the orgasm makes him weak at the knees, turning the shower as hot as it will go in the hope that it will burn him clean.

Without the thick tension brimming in him anymore, the guilt hollows him out. He wipes fog off the bathroom mirror and stares at himself, panting. He can’t live with this. With knowing what he’d wanted, and how much, and how easily. He mustn’t.

He sets his jaw, and picks up his wand. He knows the charm well, though he’s never used it on himself.

And then it never happened.

Harry can’t know how it is he moves. That’s why it happens the first time.

Cleaning the house becomes twice as arduous. The sinuous twists that expose oversized jeans sliding down Harry’s hips, where at fifteen he has a downy trail of hair from his navel. He flops, exhausted, on the couch, burrowing into Sirius’ space. He’s always finding a way for their skin to brush, for Harry’s breath to tickle Sirius’ hair.

This house is in Sirius’ bones, and like it or not he’s a permanent fixture. People don’t seem to notice him in rooms, passing through without saying hello, or turning off lights when they leave. That’s why it’s so easy for Harry to stay by his side so long, to sulk in mutual silence or pelt him with questions nobody’s bothered to ask or answer.

Then sometimes Harry doesn’t seem to notice Sirius either. He pads down the hallway from the bathroom to his room with a towel held in front of him, little but luck keeping his modesty intact. Later Sirius is rummaging through the pantry for a stiff drink and Harry leans right over him, arching his body up for a jar of peanut butter, pressed along Sirius’ spine. Sirius huffs and grabs the jar for him, and Harry thanks him brightly and makes them both toast.

And Harry sucks peanut butter and crumbs off his fingers and Sirius waits until he’s left the room—Harry doesn’t turn the lights off, at least—and he takes out his wand.

And then it never happened.

He wasn’t expecting Harry to come for Christmas. That’s why it happens the first time.

It’s like they speak a language nobody else understands, not even Remus, who has not been home nearly enough to distract him. Even Sirius only has the gist of it: something sweet, and secret, and theirs. Harry reaches so easily across a gap that’s been growing between Sirius and the rest of the world. Nobody else even sees it happening, too caught up in their own ties.

Harry smiles and Sirius’ heart feels full in a way it hasn’t in eighteen years.

Then some nights, Sirius finds Harry wandering around. Neither of them sleep well, regardless of how many hot chocolates Sirius makes for them both. They talk, and Harry hangs off his words. He helps bring Buckbeak midnight snacks and Sirius considers pulling Harry up with him and flying away from everything, and everyone, the two of them.

They linger, both of them, in these quiet pockets of time while the house is full and sleeping. Sirius sees Harry back to bed and kisses his forehead. Harry wraps his arms around Sirius’ middle and squeezes him tight. He nuzzles the base of Sirius’ throat and Sirius’ heart hammers. He shifts his stance, ruffling Harry’s hair, but they take too long to disentangle and Sirius feels the warmth that’s been surging through him since Harry came back turning into heat. He pats Harry and sends him to bed, and only when he’s on the third landing does he stop and thump his head against the wall.

He can’t just crawl back into bed with Remus, not like this. He takes out his wand.

And then it never happened.

He didn’t even expect he’d survive. That’s why it happens the first time.

Everything changes. They both come so close to death and they’re ripped apart from one another when Harry is sent back to school, then to his family, and only then is he back at Grimmauld Place. 

An assurance shifts between them, where they will hold one another until sure they’re both ready to let go. The strange uncertainty that has tickled the back of Sirius’ mind dissipates with Harry and Remus both living there, and with Sirius exonerated. The house fills with life in a way it hadn’t when it had been a headquarters. It only needs the three of them to fill it.

Sirius doesn’t realise for a long time that the confidence he and Harry share is them barreling headfirst toward something until it hits Sirius right in the face.

It is the hottest day of the summer, and they are working in the front living room, sanding down floorboards in the overbearing sun. Harry is on his knees, and he sits up, huffing out a breath and wiping his forehead. He reaches over his head and tugs his sweat-damp shirt off, and meets Sirius’ eyes as he does so. Sirius can’t help but stare, even as he feels Remus’ gaze from the doorway, where he’s waiting with three cool bottles of lemonade. 

Harry meets Sirius’ eyes, shirtless, young, warm. His lips quirk, and Sirius’ mouth goes dry. 

He turns to Remus and there’s a look in Remus’ eyes. He knows what’s just passed between them. Sirius’ stomach drops, because Harry is nearly sixteen and Sirius can’t unravel the fact that Remus has noticed, but he can get rid of what led up to it. He can make it seem like a coincidence.

And then it never happened.

It feels like how it felt with James, having Remus when he can’t have what he wants. That’s why it happens the first time. 

Nights in their dormitory, being loved by Remus and basking in it, pouring his own love out because Remus will take it. Remus will take him. Sirius is exhausted from turning the house into a place where the three of them can live, and Harry is a bright presence, a warm sun to Sirius's glinting star and Remus's calm moon, and Remus is still here. At night it can almost be like how it was. Pushing inside him, kissing his lips, panting together and narrowing the world down to—

Well, it’s always been three. 

Sirius is gasping, opening himself up to everything Remus can give him. As before, he’s taking, taking, taking. He feels it coming over him like a wave. It's unthinkable, but he almost says Harry’s name. It rises up from nowhere, from some hidden, deep part of him, then it crests over him in a rush. 

Afterwards he is breathing heavily and he hates himself. He slips away to the bathroom. 

And then it never happened. 

Harry is turning sixteen. That's why it happens the first time.

It happens after midnight though, so it's actually not his birthday anymore. But it's better to blame it on it on the feeling of the crest of a year passing when Harry melts into his space, and Sirius doesn't move away. 

They are alone after a day filled with warmth and good cheer, and the mood has remained buoyant. Buoyant enough that Harry's cheeks are flushed when Sirius looks at him and says is probably time for bed. His eyes are half lidded and his lips are parted and he's looking at Sirius through dark eyelashes. 

Sirius thinks one or both of them has been petrified, because the moment drags out longer than it reasonably should, and neither of them moves. Sirius' heart thuds in his chest. He's too close. He's too close to Harry. He can feel Harry's breath on his face, smell the butterbeer he drank earlier. 

And then he can taste the butterbeer, and he honestly couldn't tell you who moved first to close the gap. 

Harry kisses him like it's still his birthday. The sound he makes in the back of his throat burns through Sirius, making him grab Harry by the back of the neck and pull him in closer. Harry tangles his fingers through Sirius' hair. 

Sirius pulls back first. He knows that much, because Harry follows him, shifting into his knees on the couch to chase the kiss, try to close it again. Sirius holds him away. He tells him that it's enough, for now, it's late. Harry seems to disagree, but he eventually goes to bed. 

Afterwards, Sirius doesn't know what to do. So he goes to Remus. He crawls into Remus’s lap and snuffles at him with a guilty snout, and puts his tail between his legs and Remus knows immediately that something is wrong. 

And Remus says: ‘Is it Harry?’ 

He sees through him like he’s wearing the cloak, every time. 

Sirius confesses. Yes, it’s Harry. He shouldn’t have. He _knows_ he shouldn’t have. He knows it can’t happen again, because he’s his godfather and Harry is sixteen and it’s all — wrong. 

So it’s not going to happen again. He promises Remus. It won’t happen again because it never happened to start with. He takes out his wand. Remus seems exhausted. 

And then it never happened. 

Harry is going back to school tomorrow. That’s why it happens the first time. 

Sirius doesn’t want it to show that it is tearing him apart that Harry will be gone from the house, but he does a piss poor job of it. He can tell, because Harry comes to him in the night and climbs into bed with Sirius as though that’s just a thing he does. 

Harry says something about not sulking, about talking every night, about coming back soon. He means it all as much for himself as he does for Sirius. 

And then, _as though it's a thing he does,_ he nuzzles in close and kisses Sirius, and then Sirius is kissing Harry—_kissing Harry_—and it starts slow and then becomes frantic and Sirius feels uncannily like they’ve practiced it before, before he realises that he has, because it's just like kissing James. 

Instinct takes over from there. It is easy, because touching Harry is easy, and making him make little dumb sounds into Sirius’ mouth is satisfying. He wraps his hand around Harry’s cock and he strokes him, and Harry’s hips jerk and for a moment he seems overwhelmed. But then he worms his hand down under the blankets as well and touches Sirius. Hesitantly at first, but then firmer, with more confidence, and with such tenderness that before long it’s _Sirius_ who is making a mess of it and losing himself like a teenage boy. 

When it's done, Harry wraps his arms around Sirius’ and his messy curls brush Sirius’ chin. 

‘I won’t be gone forever,’ he says, like he’s reassuring both of them. 

And Sirius thinks, maybe it would be better for both of them if he was, because Sirius is broken. When Harry falls asleep, Sirius extricates himself from his arms and decides that it would be better. It needs to be better. 

And then it never happened. 

Harry surprises Sirius by coming home for his birthday. That’s why it happens the first time. 

Remus is gone on work for the Order, and the morning of Sirius’ thirty-seventh birthday starts with Sirius more than ready to spend the day wallowing. Only, he doesn’t get to, because the fireplace burns bright and Harry emerges, with a smile that is brighter than any flames, and the bark of laughter Sirius lets out surprises himself. 

Before he knows it they are hugging, and Sirius has lifted Harry off the ground to spin him, and Harry’s arms are tight around his neck, and then Sirius is stumbling because Harry is heavier than he looks, and then — 

‘I’ve missed you so much,’ says Harry, even though they spoke less than a day ago.

Then… it can’t be a surprise after all this time, Sirius supposes not. Even if they’ve never been like this before, it’s such a small shift between them; to go from talking to Harry nightly through the mirror, to go from feeling his heart warm at the sight of him, to go from loving Harry to _loving_ Harry. 

Harry is the one who is desperate and pushy about it, which is _wonderful_. He grabs at Sirius, tugs him to the nearest surface, which happens to be a rug on the parlour floor, and bites his lips when he kisses him. Sirius basks in it. It feels like being filled up with something he’s always wanted, to be needed like this. They get their clothes off in a rush. Sirius isn’t wearing much to start with, only his depression dressing gown and some pajama pants, and Harry is still in his school uniform. 

There’s a bit of fumbling, and a bit of awkwardness, and a bit of Harry telling Sirius that Sirius needs to show him what to do. But in the end they are both naked and Sirius is able to kiss down Harry’s chest, press his nose to his warm skin, suck and lick and kiss him everywhere until Harry is squirming. He kisses Harry’s thighs, one at a time, kissing up and up. Harry is skinny, but he’s sinewy muscle, and Sirius can’t help thinking that these are Quidditch player thighs so he spends an extra long time nuzzling and mouthing over them until Harry is gasping and his cock is leaking against his belly like its begging Sirius for attention. 

He gives it. He wraps his lips around the head of Harry’s cock, tongue swirling over warm skin, tasting him. He strokes him with his hand, slides his lips down to meet his fingers, and—perhaps predictably—it is all over at once and Harry is coming into his mouth, shaking all over and panting out Sirius’ name. 

And then it happens a second time, because Harry is ready to go again almost immediately. By this point Sirius has lost all sense to desire and all he can think is that he needs Harry inside him, he needs to feel it like he felt James. 

It isn’t anything like it was with James, though. Fucking James was always fun, and it always required Sirius to think of it as _fun_, and not as anything much else so that he wouldn’t get too messed up when it ended and he was still in love with James and James wasn’t in love with him. 

Fucking Harry isn’t _fun_ though, not like that. Harry is gentle and tender and sweet, and he pushes inside Sirius slowly, peppers kisses on Sirius’ chest as he does so. Sirius feels like he is being made and unmade, and he babbles to Harry the whole way through and says some soppy things about how Harry is the best thing that ever happened to him. Harry says some things too. It ends the same way it started, with Harry saying that he can’t bear to be apart from Sirius, that he missed him, that he wishes it could just be them, in this house, forever. 

‘One day,’ says Sirius, a rash and sincere promise.

Harry goes back to school later, and no sooner is he gone in the fire than there’s a crack, and Remus appears. It is impeccable timing, and Sirius thinks for a moment that he was waiting, but no. 

Remus tells him that he came back for Sirius’ birthday. 

Sirius tells him everything. And then it never happened. 

*  
Maybe Remus should have been the secretkeeper, because sometimes it feels like it’s all he ever does anyway. 

He isn’t _surprised_ exactly. The writing was on the wall. And maybe, maybe it is his fault for not being the counterbalance to Sirius’ lunacy that he was supposed to be. Maybe he should have been here more. Maybe this is all because you can’t trust a werewolf, not even to keep a dog in line. 

He takes Sirius’ memory. Holds it inside himself like a pensieve, like a reminder of how easily this can all break, how simple it would be for this house they rebuilt to crumble and fall. 

He doesn’t get a chance to talk to Harry for several weeks. Not until Christmas rolls around again. He knows he needs to talk to him, because it is how it always was: Remus between a Black and a Potter, pulling the threads, making sure everything is, if not good, at least okay. 

They go on a walk through the streets of London, on Christmas eve. Snow is falling and the footpaths are busy with last minute shoppers, but the parks are quiet, so they walk around one and stop to feed the squirrels.

Remus says, ‘I’m not your teacher anymore, of course, but I do feel that I need to ask. Are you okay, Harry?’ 

Harry gives him a look, and Remus realises that the answer to that might be obvious. Harry is a teenager and he’s dealing with the rise of a dark lord and the world is hurtling towards war. 

‘I mean in regards to Sirius,’ Remus clarifies.

That sparks a genuine smile from Harry, and he doesn’t meet Remus’ eyes but he grins from cheek to cheek and he says, ‘Yeah.’ 

Remus knows that nothing has happened between them _recently_, because Harry only got in from Hogwarts this morning, and Remus hasn’t left them alone. But even still, it’s been dancing between them, sparking in the air and Remus can see it, even though Sirius _can’t_. 

‘He doesn’t remember,’ Remus tells Harry. ‘What happened on his birthday between the two of you. Or the time before that.’ 

Harry freezes, his hand outstretched, holding a scrap of bread out to the squirrel at his feet. He is as still as a statue for a moment, and then he just says, ‘... _Which_ time?’ 

And that is when it occurs to Remus that there might be more to this story than Sirius is letting on. 

‘How many times have there been?’

*

Harry is furious. It is an anger turned inward, and Remus can tell that it is wrecking him from the inside out. Harry is saying that they never really spoke about it. They didn’t need to, he says, because it is him and it is Sirius, and they don’t need words between them. 

‘I can’t believe he did this,’ Harry says, and then, angrier: ‘I can’t believe _I_ did this.’ 

Remus looks up at the stars overhead. It is too bright in London to make out any constellations, but he thinks, that seems about right. 

‘Take mine too,’ Harry says. ‘Like you took them for Sirius.’ 

Remus gives him a long look. He _should_ have been secretkeeper. If this is what it is, to sit between these two burning stars and to be the one that holds things together by his claws. 

But then, maybe it would be for the best this way. If there’s something wrong with how they built the foundations this time, maybe it would be better for everyone if they just start fresh. Harry is sixteen. He doesn’t _need_ this. Maybe taking it away is a kindness, maybe for once Remus can stop things before they spiral out of control. 

So then it never happened. 

*

The stars above stay the same. 

*

Grimmauld Place looks, from the outside, the same as ever. But it is different, because Harry is back from Auror training, home for _good_ this time, instead of a holiday or a glance.

That’s why it happens the first time.

**Author's Note:**

> ... OR IS IT


End file.
